Escape
by LadyArcherfan
Summary: Somedays it was easier to escape and be Robin Hood, rather than Robin of Lockesly." My attempt to understand Robin's character, particularily in S3.


_"Escape"_

_By: ladyarcherfan_

_Characters: Mainly Robin, mentions of pretty much everyone else_

_Set sometime after S3-9, and probably before S3-10_

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The laughter and chatter of the villagers filled Robin's ears. They were celebrating yet another triumph of the outlaws over the Sheriff and Gisborne. Children chased each other about in silly games, shouting and shrieking in glee. The adults called out their thanks to the outlaws, slapping backs and shaking hands before turning back to their joyful families. The village rang with the sounds of celebration.

Robin turned to his gang as they headed back to Sherwood, joy and pride swelling in his chest, which he released in a broad grin and a laugh. He slapped John's back and then crooked his arm around Much's neck in a quick hug. Allan laughed as Much stumbled over his own feet and almost fell, while Djaq offered a steadying hand and Will smiled. They continued to recount their parts in the adventure and cheer about their success, voices ringing out strong and clear. Robin almost wanted to dance as their voices blended with those of the villagers, a joyful cacophony.

Suddenly, the laughter behind them changed to screams and shouts of fear. The gang turned to see mounted soldiers galloping into the village, their swords already gleaming red with death. Robin darted back, the other following close behind. As they got closer, the sounds of battle and slaughter filled Robin's ears, sending an aching fear through him but he pushed it away. Then he realized who the riders were.

They wore the white and red of crusaders and Richard's banner flew above them.

"What are you doing?" he screamed at them. "These people are harmless!"

Fury flared hot and he sprang into the fray. His arrows hissed through the air, knocking solider after solider from their mounts. The villagers tried to escape the horsemen. The gang darted through the crowds, helping where they could, but Robin quickly forgot them all. He abandoned his bow in favor of his sword as the fight became too close and he dealt out punishment to those that attacked the villagers. Blood roared in his ears, swords rang, men cried in pain as death claimed them, horses screamed in terror. The din of battle filled him and he became the battle.

"Robin!" cried a musical voice.

He spun, blinking away the battle daze. Marian ran through the village, sword in hand, unbound hair streaming in the wind. She dodged or unarmed the soldiers and directed the panic stricken villagers to safety as she moved towards him. A tangle of emotions raced through his veins, so sharp but so unclear that all he felt was pain.

"Marian? What are you doing here?" The battle seemed to fade away for a few moments as he looked at her.

Eyes blazing with stubborn independence, Marian replied, "Helping the villagers, of course. You can't do everything alone."

Robin opened his mouth but found that he could not speak, nor could he move. The battle surrounded them again, deafening and dizzying him. Marian was a bright beacon, a point of focus, something for him to hold onto in the confusion. She was concentrated and stern, even as she smiled at him; she was beautiful. Yet he could not move towards her.

He saw her turn to face a rider who galloped straight for her. He saw the man's sword rise and fall, gleaming red. Marian cried out and crumpled to the ground.

He found his voice again, ripping from his throat in a despairing cry. "Marian!" He struggled to move, but his limbs were locked, his muscles paralyzed.

The rider turned his horse and charged at Robin. As the sword drove into him, Robin saw the face under the helm.

It was his own.

With a gasp, Robin woke. Drenched in cold sweat, he sat up in his bunk and tried to steady his breathing. Seeking reassurance in familiarity, he looked around the camp at his gang and was almost overwhelmed with despair again. Much, Allan, John, Tuck and Kate. It was his gang, but it wasn't. Everything had changed, though no one wanted to admit it. Beyond the loss and gain of members, the relationships that had once been strong were threadbare; others that had been tenuous were suddenly almost iron clad.

They all outwardly ignored what had happened in the past and simply moved on. They didn't have much choice. Robin refused to discuss the past if at all possible. He ignored the scars and pain, making believe that they had never occurred and that the happenings had simply been just another nightmare. With a shuddering sigh, he buried his face in his hands. Just seeing his gang was proof that not everything had been a nightmare. What was worse was when he saw things _she_ had once handled – her throwing knives, her bow, or even the wooden comb Will had made for her. The agony of loss was sharpest then.

He stood suddenly, memories of the time she had spent in camp sharp and cruel as knives, driving through his heart. He had to escape, even if it was only for a short time. Moving silently, he left the camp, his sleeping gang and raced into the forest.

Instinctively, Robin wove through the trees, his mind grappling with itself to find the false sense of order he had created. He ran until the pain and chaos faded into the dark corner of his mind, there to stay, guarded by his own stubbornness. Or so he hoped. His frequent nightmares were proof that he wasn't as strong as the world thought. Robin Hood couldn't let people know he couldn't sleep because of bad dreams. Robin Hood couldn't be weak; he was there to help those that were not strong.

He stopped then, leaning against a tree and sliding to the ground. He had never been allowed to be weak, had never allowed _himself_ to be weak, but most every action declared his lack of strength. It showed as recklessness, thoughtlessness, arrogance and pride. Yet they were only shields to hide sadness, fear, loneliness and confusion. It had been that way for years, ever since he decided to leave England and follow King Richard to the Crusades.

He had needed to escape from the monotony of being Lord of Locksley, but he also tried to run from the memories and inadequacies he felt. The droning voices of the older lords in the council of nobles that dredged up memories of his father. When they would mention how, "Young Robin is not as clear thinking as Lord Robert was," it hurt. It hurt to be doubted, and it hurt to be reminded of the past.

So he ran to war. The victorious and boasting cries of fellow Crusaders masked the echoing buzz from memories of Lockley, and he felt strong and sure of himself for a time. Then the battles started. The sights, sounds, and feelings could not be ignored; there was nowhere for him to escape to this time. He tried, God help him, he _tried_ to ignore the horrors he saw and created. It was all for naught. The truth attacked him in the night, twisting memories of war and home into impossible creations. So he called _her_ name in an attempt to find solidity again. It was one of the few times that the past was more of a comfort than a curse.

When he was stabbed he almost welcomed the pain. It was something else to focus on, a sordid escape. The fever was another matter; it sapped all of his strength. While his nightmares had been horrible enough, his fevered dreams were worse. Harsher, darker, and far more frightening, they forced him to stop calling her name in a plea for a help and start screaming it in fear. It was fear of losing himself in the red-black terror of the fever, the fear of losing her to the myriad deaths he dreamt of, and the fear of having lost her for good to some other.

Back in England, he tried to smother the echoes of war, but it seldom worked. Too often the actions he took to bring about right to his beloved land mimicked the deeds he had done in the Holy Land. Too often the creature he had become in the desert sands emerged in the greenwood. He struggled to control it, but all he could do was simply reinforce his shields of arrogance and foolhardiness. Some days, he blamed himself and his weaknesses entirely for Marian's death. If he had been stronger, he could have protected her. If he had been stronger, he would have never left in the first place.

Pain lanced its way through his heart. When he thought about her death, it still hurt like the day it happened. So he forced himself not to think of it. Even during the long journey back to England, his thoughts had been on the many ways he could make Gisborne pay for what he had done. He only recalled _her_ face when he needed a spark to rekindle the flame of hate.

Tuck had given him an opportunity to bury her memory and his pain. He was Robin Hood, hope for the people. The speeches he gave, the cheering crowds, the ever wilder escapades blocked the sounds and images of her death. He let the darker solider that hid in him loose far more often than he had before. Killing and the memories of the Crusades it brought were suddenly preferable to the ghost of his heart that gazed at him with deep blue eyes.

Burying the ghost and memories was the reason he allowed himself to be attracted to Isabella, and ultimately be used by her. He should have learned by then, though, that he could never fully get rid of the things that hurt him. The memories could be shoved into a box in some back corner of his mind but they could spill out at any time. That was exactly what happened with Isabella. He told Isabella that he was Robin Hood and that he could never leave that title and life behind. But it was more than that; he had been forced to confront memories of Marian when looking at and speaking to Isabella, and he could not find the strength to stand against yet another reminder of what he had lost.

Kate was yet another distraction. Half heartedly returning her affection was something that buried the ghost out of sight again and attempted to fill the hole that was left in his heart. The pain of the hollowness was yet another distraction. If he focused on the ache and not the reason behind it, he could cope.

With a groan, Robin let his head flop back against the tree. He did not know how long he could continue like this. The constant running from the past would only weary him, and one day he would crack so completely that the world would look at Robin Hood in scorn for being so weak.

Yet he knew of nothing else he could do. Robin Hood was a façade, an escape into a world where things worked out, where people shouted in joy and not fear. When he was Robin Hood, nothing could touch him. So perhaps Robin Hood _was_ strong, because Robin Hood could deal with all the challenges that came to him. It was just Robin of Locksley that was not strong. Some days, it was far easier to be Robin Hood, and escape from being Robin of Locksley. So he would just continue to try to escape, and hope the poor foundation that Robin Hood was built on would not fail.

_Fin. _

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_A/N: This is basically my attempt to get into Robin's head and explain why he's so insufferable and inconsistent some times. I'm not sure how well it does that, but here you go. (It is mildly AU in the fact that you will notice that I have named Robin's father not Malcolm but Robert. As Robin is derived from Robert, my brain always assumed it was for "Robert Jr". And I tend to ignore that back story episode anyway because it doesn't make much sense. That's my minor rebellion against canon here.) LAF_


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